


The Stars Look Very Different Today

by Bluehaven4220



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996), due South
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Reference to Canonical Character Death, References to Addiction, lots of swearing, music as medicine, music as therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluehaven4220/pseuds/Bluehaven4220
Summary: Five hundred kilometres north west of Edmonton, Billy meets a new friend.





	The Stars Look Very Different Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ButterflyGhost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/gifts).



> Welcome to my very first Hard Core Logo story! This started as just a little image in my mind's eye and, in less than three days time, it turned into this. 
> 
> Rated as such due to mentions of canon events that may be triggers, and LOTS of swearing. I mean it, there's A LOT.
> 
> This also takes place outside the Due South timeline, just because.
> 
> Song title mentioned in the story is italicized
> 
> Special thanks to ButterflyGhost for the beta and encouragement. Thank you for being such a great friend.

Way to go, Joe, I curse the bastard as I leave the cemetery and get into my truck. You really earned that name, didn’t you? Joe Dick. Fucker. What’s that you’d said? Just feeling the legend, baby? Fuck you again, you fucking twat. Rot in hell.

I’m so pissed I just keep driving north. Don’t know where I’m going, and I don’t fucking care. I just keep going until I suddenly find myself in some little town called Beaverlodge. I shit you not, the town’s name is fucking _Beaverlodge_. There’s even a giant beaver statue in the middle of the town park. Jesus Christ, how’d I end up here?

I drive up to a small house on the edge of town to see some guy sitting on his front porch, strumming an old acoustic. Even with my windows down, I can hear him. He’s humming along, but it’s not a tune I’ve ever heard. Hell, I don’t even think it’s a _song_. He’s just humming. So, I park the truck and walk around to lean against the passenger side.

Guy with Guitar looks up and sets it to the side. “Hello! Can I help you?”

“Hey, uh, yeah, just…” he’s getting up and walking down his front steps. As he does, I notice he’s dressed in jeans and flannel, and somehow that doesn’t put me off. “I heard you playing and… it’s good. You play a lot?”

“Sometimes,” he approaches me and holds out his hand. “Benton Fraser.”

I accept the handshake. “Billy… Bill Boisy.” He doesn’t look like he’d know about Hard Core Logo or Jenifur or anything to do with music that was released any later than the 50’s, so I just give him my real name.

“Pleased to meet you, Bill Boisy,” he offers. “Do you play?”

See? What’d I tell you?

“Yeah, um…” Fuck, suddenly I can’t get the words out, I’m so tired. “Listen, I’ve just driven up from Edmonton, and, I’m wondering… could I jam with you for a while?”

He smiles, and I see he’s got an eye tooth that just slightly twisted. Damn. If that’s the only thing out of place with this guy, I’m glad I drove past.

“If you like,” he nods. “Come on up.”

I open the truck’s passenger side door and grab my bass. The Strat should have been there with it, but it's not, thanks to Joe.

Bastard. Bucky Haight had given me that Strat, and Joe’d been jealous. Joe hero-worshipped Bucky, and when we’d driven to Bucky’s farm and seen that Joe had lied to all of us… one of the last straws had been Bucky giving _me_ the Strat. Well, that, and Bruce MacDonald telling Joe I was leaving to join Jenifur. Fucking asshole.  

Guitar Guy… Benton. He’d told me his name. Shit, who saddles a kid with a name like _Benton?_ Anyway, he shows me where to sit as I lug the guitar case up onto the porch.

“Can I get you something to drink? Something to eat?”

What? This guy is _really_ going all out here. Which makes me wonder why he would.

“How do you know I'm not some bum just looking for a free meal?”

“Are you?” Benton tilts his head, looks interested. “Everyone gets hungry, what’s wrong with that? I have food if you are.”

“Oh.” Yeah, he really is that nice. I’m more used to nasty than nice, especially when Joe was around. Still, Benton’s offering so… “Uh… yeah, that'd be good. Thanks.”

“Set yourself up on the porch. I’ll be right back.” Benton opens the screen door and disappears back into the house, while I set my guitar case down and open it up.

It’s only been a week or so since I last used it, but with Joe dying and me needing to get away as quick as possible after burying him, I didn’t get a chance to pack my guitar away properly. I’m usually really careful with it, so before I even start, I give it a once over. Surprisingly, I only have to replace a string, and wipe down the neck. There’s blood because I tore a callus.  

I set the bass on my thigh just as Benton comes back outside. He’s carrying a tray that has two bowls and two glasses of water sitting on it. I guess he hadn’t eaten yet either.

“I didn’t know what you wanted to drink, so I’ve brought you water. Or I’ve got ginger ale if you’d like?”

“No, no, water’s just fine. Thanks.” I’m grateful he didn’t offer me anything stronger, especially after the heavy boozing and the drug binging that always seems to happen when we tour. Frankly, I don’t want it anymore. The booze and the drugs, I mean. I'll always want the touring. Instead, I gently put my guitar back in its case for now and accept the bowl he’s offering me, along with a fork.

I wait to dig in until he sits down with his own bowl, and then I realize what it is.

Pasta salad. And it looks delicious. When you’re on the road, you don’t always get to eat the healthiest shit there is, and a lot of the time me, Joe, Pipe, and John lived on coffee, booze, and cigarettes. There was that one time we stopped for burgers at Herbie’s, and the sandwiches backstage that night when Mary brought her husband and little girl to see us, but that’s pretty standard.

But I didn’t expect this stranger to bring me something like this. It’s chock full of red and green peppers, black olives, carrots, tomatoes, some cucumber, and… holy shit, where’d he find feta cheese? I take a bite and suddenly my taste buds are coming back to life. This… this is the stuff I miss when I’m on the road.

“Damn, that’s good,” I mumble around the food in my mouth. “You do this for every random who drives by your house?”

“Only the ones who look like they need it,” Benton winks as he takes a drink of water.

“So you’re saying I look scrawny and malnourished to you?”

“You said you drove up from Edmonton,” he shrugs his shoulders. “That’s over five hundred kilometres, and you don’t look like you’ve slept or eaten anything since you left.”

Damn, he’s observant. I stab at my pasta and take another big forkful. “I didn't even think about it. Just got in my truck and drove.”

He doesn't say anything. Not that I don't _want_ him to, because I get the feeling he won't ask what happened or why unless I push him.

So we just sit on the porch in silence, finishing our late lunches. It's been a long time since I had such quiet company. Joe and Pipe never shut up, and John, poor guy, he'd lost his meds somewhere around Winnipeg. By the end of the tour, he was completely over the edge.

I hear Ben’s fork clink against his bowl and it snaps me out of my thoughts.

“If you're done, I’ll just put these in the sink and then we can start.”

Start? Oh yeah. I got distracted by food, not like _that’s_ something new. He _did_ say we were gonna jam together for a bit.

“Sounds great, thanks.” Benton takes my bowl and glass and goes back in the house. He doesn't seem like the type of guy to just leave dishes in the sink, so I figure it’ll be a few minutes until he's back.

I take my bass out of its case and adjust it on my knee. Once it's comfortable, I start plucking at the strings and strumming. These notes don't mean anything, and right now they don't have to. That's fucking fine by me. I figure I’ll sit on this guy Benton’s front porch and just play. If someone walking by happens to hear it, well lucky them, they get to hear free music.

I feel my fingers going over the strings and notes as I look out over the porch. The sun’s getting lower, but it’s so quiet you'd think that everyone had already gone to bed. That's cool, when it's quiet you can actually hear the notes you're playing. It wasn't like that with Joe and Pipe and John. The concerts were so loud, and we'd done those songs so many times that we didn't even notice if we made a mistake. The fans didn't either, they just screamed their lungs out because Hard Core Logo was playing a reunion tour.

Some reunion, eh Joe? Fucking bastard douche. What the fuck were you thinking, blowing your fucking brains out? Why the fuck didn't you just ask me if I was really leaving for a while? Why didn't you _talk_ to me, you fucker?

I'm so focused on my silent rage at Joe Dick and the fact that he fucking _died_ that I don't even notice Benton coming back out at first. Just as I'm about to start strumming again, I notice that he's actually playing the beginning chords to something.

_Space Oddity._ He's playing _Space Oddity_ by David Bowie. And he's _good,_ too. You know, for someone who said he only plays from time to time.

It's so out there that I can't help but join in. Soon, we’re playing the whole song, as you do. But I’m not singing, and neither is he. I don’t think I’ve ever actually heard the song without the lyrics. It’s nice.

When we finish, we’re both quiet for a minute, and then I put my head down and chuckle.

“Bill?”

I chuckle again and sigh. “Joe’d be on his back laughing if he heard me playing a song like that.”

He doesn’t say anything for what feels like hours, but it’s really only a few minutes. “Where’s Joe now?” he asks, resting his hand on the top of his acoustic.

“Fuck…” I breathe out harshly. I sit up straighter and pinch the bridge of my nose. I hadn’t meant to say anything about him. My fingers have moved from the bridge of my nose and are poking into the corners of my eyes. “Dead.” I swallow to clear the lump that’s formed in my throat. “The bastard shot himself last week.”

Benton turns and looks at me. His face is calm, but his eyes are deep and sad, like maybe he’s lost someone too.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

“Thanks.”

It’s quiet again, but I can’t tell if Ben’s looking to say something more, or if he’s waiting for me to say something else. I don’t know what _to_ say though. What else can I say about Joe Dick, aside from maybe “thanks for leaving me, you fucker.”

I don’t say that, though. Instead, I pluck my guitar strings again, and, sensing what I’d like, Ben does the same.

We play _Space Oddity_ again, and this time, we both sing.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Space Oddity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17007180) by [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific)




End file.
